


You Give Me Something to Think About

by Granger4013



Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types, Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Genre: Angst, F/F, POV Carmilla, Post 2x30
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Granger4013/pseuds/Granger4013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Carmilla can think about is Laura...even in the aftermath, even when the last thing she actually wants to think about is her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Give Me Something to Think About

**Author's Note:**

> Some version of this has been in my head for a couple of days and I just needed it out, so I wrote this very quickly with no beta, so errors are all mine. This is my first time writing in the Carmilla fandom, so I'm still working on voice and tone. Also, the Mature rating here is really light, but is there for mild references
> 
> Inspiration is "St. Patrick" by Pvris. Every time I have listened to it since last week, all I can think about is how Laura was the one thing that could make Carmilla think about something other than all the pain she's experienced, so what happens when Laura becomes the cause of that pain? Or as the song says, what happens when Laura becomes "the shit in [Carmilla's] head?"

Laura…Laura…Laura

She is the pricking of the nerves under your skin, the cold chill running down your spine, the weight hanging around the unearthly thumping of your pathetic undead heart.

Your footsteps drag you away from that house, from those unholy, but somehow justified tears, and from the godforsaken, lifeless body of the only person who knew you before you became what you are now—a hollow shell of shattered hopes, a broken body of disappointed love--from the now empty bones of the one person who possibly ever truly understood who, what, you are.

Your brain forces your feet to keep moving, your neurons snapping and firing, your muscles straining with the effort, to just keep walking away…from her, because if your brain let your heart take over, if your muscles didn’t override the pulsing in your veins, you know you’d already be turning back. 

Laura…Laura…Laura

She is the fire that has seeped into your bloodstream, overpowering you with something unknowable that keeps you clinging on to her naïve, human form. Once, before, before tonight, before your tongue felt heavy with words like betrayal, you had thought that what hummed in your veins was love. Love, the most dangerous drug you’ve ever let your body ingest in your three hundred years of not truly living. Yet now, with glimpses of her anguish still flashing behind your eyes, you try to convince yourself that it was anything other than love. It was chemical, pure and simple, a raw combination of adrenaline and savage hope, that threw your instinct for possession into overdrive. That’s all it was. Anatomy. Biology. Chemical reactions. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be…because if it was…surely you wouldn’t be here now, broken and hollow. You tell yourself that it is those chemicals, those purely animal instincts that are desperately trying to pull you back, to make you turn around, to drag you back to her. It isn’t because you love her. Still. It isn’t because you hold onto some foolish, ignorant hope that this girl with her morals and her black and white simplicity and her ideas of monsters and heroes could possibly love you in return. It’s your uncontrollable physiology that demands you watch over that which you have claimed as your own that is begging you to return to her. All she is to you is chemicals. Nothing more. It isn’t because even with your hands still throbbing from feeling the life drain out of the last person you knew as family, you feel like you could forgive her, because she’s worth it, and because she’s confused, and because she messed up and made a mistake that you could eventually come to understand. It isn’t because despite it all, she is the only thing you want.

Laura…Laura…Laura

You know that all she hopes for, all she prays for are justifications and for things to make sense, for the world to spin in a way that is right and true and understandable. You know she believes in things like fate and destiny and those who are born to greatness. And so you know that even now, in spite of everything that she has seen, despite everything she has done, she will hope and pray for a miracle, for some way to viably fix this and make it right. She will pace and rant and plan, all in an effort to find some way to right the wrongs, even when the wrongs have been perpetrated by her own hand. She will wipe the tears from her face and square her shoulders, which you have traced with delicate fingers and halting lips, and she will try to rise above the chaos and the hell that has been unleashed, because she will still believe that there is some way to make everything alright. She will hope that your head will clear and that your pain will ebb and that you’ll return and that you’ll talk and that whatever you had will rise above the ether of this demolished wasteland of a world and once again shine brightly. She will hope that you will stay. She will continue to fruitlessly hope for a miracle that you know won’t happen.

It won’t happen because any semblance of faith you had disappeared in a flash of blood tinged silver, piercing against your too frail, too young, too pale skin. You long since gave up believing in all-knowable and all-loving powers, because if they were real, how could you be what you are? How could they let your youth and your innocence be dragged away, only to be reborn on a wave of eternity and damnation? No…you had long since given up hope in miracles…in things like saints and angels…until…

Laura…Laura…Laura

She had made hope bloom in your chest, so new and so fresh and so unfamiliar that there were nights you wondered if it would crack you in two. She told you that your kiss, your mouth on hers, your breath breathing into her cracked _her_ open, but she had no idea that _you_ were already torn in two. That you had been for far too long because of her, because she had made you believe. Believe in things you had thought long dead. She had made you believe in salvation and redemption…filling your head with her stupid hopes that things, that you, could be different. That the two of you together could be more. She had given you a glimpse of your long forgotten humanity, in all of the long and quiet hours of the night, with her fingers tangled in your hair and your teeth scraping against her thighs. She had made your chest pang with something that could have been a beating heart with the gentle, too delicate etches of her fingertips across your skin, dancing a waltz over your nerve-endings, making you convinced that with one more sweep of her fingers across your stomach that you might just burst into flames and gladly relish the burn because it came from her hand. She had made you believe that things could be holy and sacred as she would whisper and gasp and scream your name like a prayer into the night, and cling to you like you were her last tether to earth, keeping her grounded with your hands, your lips, your very being. She had made you believe that maybe angels could be real, because surely only something so pure and so holy could rise above what you were and love you anyway. Only a good of the highest order would be able to look at you and not see a monster, but someone worthy.

For the briefest of moments, she had made you forget everything you were, everything you had been, and made you believe that this eternity didn’t have to be a punishment, but could be a gift because you got to spend even the tiniest sliver of it with her. She had silenced the screaming voices in your head that did nothing but remind you of the pain you felt and the pain you had caused. She had replaced them with whispers of adoration and moans of pleasure and gasps of breathlessness that always sounded like a cross between your name and a curse. She had been the first thing in over a century to draw you out of the darkness that was your thoughts, the tortuous tales and memories that your mind loved to spin against your will. She had given you something new to think about, and you had cataloged every moment with her into a memory to be intimately relived hour after hour. So when the pain threatened to overcome you, you could fall back against the image of her moving underneath you, arching under your touch, pressing against your skin and your bone and your muscle with such strength that you wondered at times if you would just meld together. When the anguish and the fear ricocheted into your head like a shot, unexpectedly, she gave you a reason to stop and breath and fight against it. So you would take an unnecessary breath and remember the image of her hair splayed against your pillows, the beauty of the sun filtering through your curtains to paint her features with a beauty unparalleled while she slept while you kept up your nightly vigil of watching over her, doing nothing but feeling her breathe. When you felt like all of your mistakes would creep up on you and wrap you so tight they would choke you, you replaced their arms with her own, remembering the way her hand with grip so tightly around your waist in her sleep, the way she would melt into the feeling of your arm around her shoulders, the way her fingers would always chase over your cheeks and steal into your hair drawing you in for one more kiss. Making you remember that in this century, in this particular lifetime, there was the hope that you could just exist in happiness with her.

Laura…Laura…Laura

She made you want to breathe, once again, for real, to truly feel it fill your chest, so that when you brushed against her, and took in the soft waves of chocolate and vanilla, it would actually seep into your chest and stay there for as long as you held it. She made you wish that your heart needed to beat, so that when she stretched out on top of you and pushed and pressed and moved in all of the ways you never imagined her tiny, seemingly innocent body could, you would actually feel the pounding in your chest, the blood rushing into your cheeks at just how reckless and hopeless she made you feel. You wanted her to be able to feel, to see, to know just what she did to you, so she would know that she left you a wrecked heap of breathless rapture. She made you want to be human again so that never had to face the years and decades and centuries that you have to exist without her, long after she had left your side. 

Laura…Laura…Laura

Now she was nothing but ashes in your mouth and an acid burning in your stomach. Now the one thing that had made the darkness in your life ebb, had brought it rearing back with a new-found, blazing, horrendous power. Now she was the one that made the monster in your heart and the demons in your brain want to return and wreck vengeance. Now, she was the cause of the pain and the fearful memories and the torture and the pain. Now, the one thing that had chased away your pain was the one and only cause of it. Now, what once was your light was your darkness. Now, what once was your life was your death. Now, what once was your love was your hate. If only you could hate her. 

Laura…Laura…Laura

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading guys! Feel free to leave a note and let me know what you think :-)


End file.
